


Some Ado About Much, Or: C'mon! We Can Play Enforcing Tropes!

by edna_blackadder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book-Based But Show-Inspired, F/M, Ineffable Idiots, M/M, Much Ado About Nothing, Teenage Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: The Them, with help from Anathema and Newt, take a cue from Shakespeare in order to nudge an oblivious angel and demon into noticing they’ve fallen in love with each other. (Because, like Dogberry, I am an ass.)





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> For those unaware, David Tennant played Benedick in a 2011 production of Much Ado About Nothing, opposite Catherine Tate as Beatrice. If Neil Gaiman can use Good Omens to make Hamlet jokes about Tennant, then well, hold my beer.

_August_

‘Australia,’ mumbled Aziraphale, waving an unsteady hand. ‘That must have been one of your better, er, worse achieve—achiever—things you’ve done.’

Crowley shook his head, then grabbed hold of the battered sofa to avoid rolling off it. ‘Nonono,’ he slurred, wagging a finger. ‘Wildlife—that’s your boss. Nothing to do with me.’ He grinned sleepily at Aziraphale, swinging his legs upward and into the angel’s lap. ‘More wine,’ he said to Anathema, turning away just in time to miss Aziraphale’s contented blush, matching the warm glow of their auras.

Anathema nodded, set down her glass, and stepped into the kitchen. The Them sat clustered around the table, engaged in a what to an outsider might look like an intense shouting match, but Anathema knew to in fact be a merry hand of cards, while Dog jumped about the table, begging for scraps from everyone in turn. Newt, seated between Wensleydale and Brian, smiled awkwardly with the air of someone who has been out of the game for some time, knows he hasn’t a prayer of mounting a comeback against such fierce competition, but feels it would be rude to get up and leave the table, which was in fact his situation.

‘Anathema!’ said Adam, even as he dived forward to seize the mess of cards in the centre, over his friends’ roaring protests. ‘Deal you in next round?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Anathema, smiling as she shook her head. ‘I take it you’re winning?’

‘Well,’ said Adam, with a cheeky grin, ‘it is my birthday.’

‘Three hundred and sixty-five days a year,’ said Pepper, with fond exasperation. ‘Just put us out of our misery, Adam, we know you’re going to win eventually.’

‘You’re no fun,’ said Adam, but he smiled as he said it. So did Anathema, as she wrestled a box of wine out of the fridge.

The tradition, if it could be yet be called, had started three years prior, on Adam’s twelfth birthday. She and Newt had gone looking for Adam with a present and a bag of sweets only to run into Aziraphale and Crowley, at once familiar and unfamiliar, attempting the same. To this day Anathema couldn’t say whether Adam’s subconscious had ensured they’d cross paths or whether it had just been a happy accident of timing, but either way they had all ended up at Jasmine Cottage, and soon enough Crowley and Aziraphale had emptied Anathema’s gin and, in their resulting state, blown Adam’s memory wipe all to somewhere.

Recriminations and tears had followed, but shortly thereafter, apologies and forgiveness and cake and ice cream all around, and when Adam turned thirteen, they did it again.

Crowley had removed his sunglasses and clasped his hands behind his head, his snake eyes alight with happiness as he looked up at Aziraphale, whose upright posture belied his equal inebriation. His hands rested lightly on Crowley’s shins, and if they were folded in prayer, Anathema would eat her theodolite.

‘Boxed wine!’ said Crowley, perking up at her reappearance. ‘I did invent that.’ Aziraphale tutted in disapproval, and then he blinked. Not an ordinary blink, but a miracle blink. Anathema had learnt to recognise the difference, and it was the reason she no longer bothered to buy anything expensive when hosting them.

‘How’s the birthday boy?’ Aziraphale asked, as she refilled his glass.

‘Destroying them all,’ said Anathema, shaking her head as she filled Crowley’s glass and half-filled her own. Attempting to keep pace with them was just about suicidal, but she’d been careful all evening, and she needed something to focus on other than their obliviously romantic pose. ‘Wrapping up soon, though, I think. It’s getting late.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Aziraphale. ‘We ought to help you clean up.’ He attempted to stand, but Crowley stayed resolutely put. He snapped his fingers with a devilish grin, and soiled plates and glasses became clean. And it wasn’t that Anathema wasn’t grateful, because she was, but she’d never be so grateful as to gaze at him half as adoringly as Aziraphale was currently doing.

‘Thanks,’ she said, several beats too late, but Crowley was too drunk to notice. Several beats later, he nodded in acknowledgement, still looking at Aziraphale.

The Them joined them, Newt and Dog trailing in their wake. ‘We’ve got to get home,’ said Pepper. ‘Adam won, as usual.’

‘Thank you for having us,’ said Wensleydale primly, and the other Them nodded along, chiming in with their own thanks, as they slipped their jackets on.

‘Anytime,’ said Anathema, and she meant it, too. ‘Happy birthday, Adam.’

‘Thanks,’ said Adam, smiling warmly at her. ‘It was. We’ll see you soon.’ They filed out, and Crowley half-sat up.

‘We should probably head out too,’ he said, as Aziraphale nodded. Crowley reacquainted his feet with the floor, and they both winced.

‘Thank you, Anathema, Newton,’ said Aziraphale. He beamed at both of them. ‘A pleasure, as always.’

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley, holding back a yawn. ‘Thanks.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Anathema, as Newt nodded. ‘I’d say “drive safe”, but I’ve met you.’

‘I still say you hit me,’ said Crowley, but there was affection in his voice, however vehemently he’d try to deny it.

‘Agree to disagree,’ said Anathema, before hugging each of them in turn. She’d been drunk the first time she’d attempted that, and Crowley had frozen up in a way that was very funny until you thought about it for five seconds, and then wasn’t funny at all. He still twitched a little, but he was more used to it now, and even hesitantly patted her on the back before they slipped out, the Bentley roaring off into the night.

Not a minute later, the doorbell rang. The Them stood on the front stoop, dry leaves and jasmine blossoms clinging to their clothes and hair.

‘We hid in the bracken,’ said Adam. ‘Can we come in?’

‘You hid in the bracken?’ asked Newt, his brow furrowing the way it always did when things threatened to get interesting. ‘Why did you do that?’

Adam grinned. It wasn’t just any grin, but the self-satisfied grin of a person who has been holding a joyously weak punchline in reserve and has finally got the chance to deliver it, a grin no one on Earth wore quite as well as Adam Young. ‘I said we’d see you soon, didn’t I?’

‘That you did,’ said Anathema. She shook her head, but couldn’t suppress her smile.

‘We had to make them think we’d gone,’ said Pepper matter-of-factly, Brian and Wensleydale nodding behind her.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Adam. ‘You know I don’t believe in messing about, but there must be some way we can help.’

‘Help who?’ asked Newt, even as Anathema privately thought that you didn’t need to be psychic to zero in on this one.

‘Aziraphale and Crowley,’ said Adam, rolling his eyes. ‘That was ridiculous, even for them. Can we talk about this?’

‘I suppose we’d better,’ said Anathema, ignoring Newt’s wary look. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ The Them stepped back inside, kicking off muddy shoes that had never bothered her one bit, and never would do, and reclaimed their seats at the table. Anathema rummaged through her pantry for chamomile tea and hot cocoa mix, then joined them.

‘Cor,’ said Brian, ‘got any whipped cream?’

‘I’m afraid—’ Anathema started, before she caught sight of Adam’s preening look. ‘We do now,’ she finished, and Brian beamed. It took her a minute to find it, and then the kettle whistled, doubtless assisted in its mission by one teenage Antichrist playing fast and loose with the natural operation of causality. Anathema filled everyone’s mugs with their preferred after-dinner beverage, then sat down again.

‘I thought they were together,’ she said, once everyone looked comfortable. ‘When I first met them, I mean. I didn’t realise “angel” was meant to be literal.’

‘’S’not your fault Crowley says it like he wants to jump his bones,’ said Pepper, stirring whipped cream into her cocoa. Adam snickered, and it was a more of struggle for Anathema not to do so than she cared to admit.

‘Or that Aziraphale clearly wishes he would,’ said Brian, slopping cocoa over the rim of his mug as he added more whipped cream than it could ever have safely contained.

‘Adam,’ said Wensleydale, ‘are you absolutely sure they haven’t noticed?’

Adam nodded. ‘I know all about them,’ he said, taking a sip of his own cocoa. ‘I had to look, you know, when we were sorting things out. I didn’t quite get it when I was eleven, but it’s different now. I’m fifteen.’

As tones of voice went, Adam appeared to have been aiming for ‘effortlessly authoritative’, but he hadn’t quite hit the mark. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, taking in Anathema’s expression, and she nearly snorted her tea.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that’s usually my line. And you can stop smirking, Newt, I know you’re about to say something about the shoe being on the other foot.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ said Newt, earning himself a glare that couldn’t trouble itself to contain any actual malice.

‘Right,’ said Adam. ‘Crowley, Aziraphale, anything any of us can do short of yelling “Oi, get a room, you two” and causing them to avoid each other ’til we’re all six feet underground. Any ideas, since you’re so much more grown up?’

‘I’m not sure there is anything we can do,’ said Anathema, ‘but Adam, you should see their auras. They shine around each other. I’m sure they’ll work it out soon enough.’

‘In light of that, maybe they have worked it out already after all,’ said Newt. ‘I mean, they aren’t like us. Perhaps this is, well, it for them.’

‘Maybe it is,’ said Adam, ‘but if so, they still don’t realise they’re there. They ought to at least know they’re together, if only so we can make fun of ’em properly.’

‘Give them time,’ said Newt, sipping his tea.

‘They’ve had time,’ said Adam mulishly. ‘Six thousand years of time. Either somebody comes up with a plan, or we draw straws at my next birthday.’


	2. Act II

_October_

‘Claudio’s a right tosser,’ said Pepper, sitting cross-legged on the milk crate in the quarry that the Them still claimed as their base, even as they did less running about and more schoolwork these days. ‘He’s ready to marry Hero just because she’s pretty. They don’t even talk. And then the Prince has to woo her for him. If she’d actually cheated on him, he’d have deserved it.’

‘That’s how it was in those days, though,’ said Wensleydale. ‘Arranged marriages and all that, mostly based on social status.’

‘Not always, though,’ said Pepper. ‘It’s right there in the play. Beatrice and Benedick are too clever for any of that nonsense. Claudio’s hopelessly shallow by comparison, and so’s Hero, even if she probably deserves better than him.’

‘Not that clever, though, the way they fall for the others’ set-ups,’ said Brian. ‘They just decide they must be in love with each other because the others put it in their heads. Don’t seem that all that clever to me.’

‘They’re supposed to have been in love all along and just not realised it, ’cause they don’t think like that,’ said Wensleydale. ‘They start out thinking that all love is the superficial Claudio and Hero version, so they don’t consider that their merry war is itself a kind of love.’

Adam cleared his throat, and the other Them looked up. Adam’s subconscious no longer literally commanded their attention, but he still had the best ideas, so they still instinctively went quiet when he was about to speak.

Sometimes Adam felt guilty about this. It amounted, undeniably, to a lingering trace effect of what he now understood to have been a form of brainwashing, albeit one he’d never meant to inflict. It wasn’t as bad these days, now that they knew, but if his eleven-year-old self had occasionally found it trying to think up things for them to do, now that pressure had increased tenfold. He had to earn that eager reaction, those excited eyes, every time, or he’d never forgive himself, and what he had been about to say was, by that standard, rather underwhelming.

‘Yes?’ said Pepper, when he didn’t immediately speak. ‘Oh no. I know that look. It’s just boring schoolwork, Adam, you don’t have to reinvent the wheel. What’s on your mind?’

Adam suppressed a sigh, forcing himself to take some measure of comfort in her reassurance. He rearranged his slouch into one that would only inspire about five pages of righteous fury from R.P. Tyler, as opposed to the usual ten, and stroked Dog behind the ears. ‘Maybe it doesn’t have to be so boring,’ he said, considering his words carefully. ‘Maybe we could try it out, see if ole Bill Shakespeare was really onto something. Like an experiment.’

‘What kind of experiment?’ asked Wensleydale, with the hopeful expression of someone who knows that his friends will never half-share his passion for all things scientific, but will take whatever crumbs he can get.

‘Not like you’re thinking,’ said Adam, ‘a social experiment. I reckon you’re all right about Benedick and Beatrice. They’re clever, and they’re not clever, and they’re obviously mad for each other but too messed up to see it. Remind you of anyone we know?’

‘What?’ asked Brian, but comprehension dawned on his face a moment later, bringing it into line with Pepper’s and Wensleydale’s. ‘Oh. Right. Those two again.’

‘Exactly,’ said Adam. ‘This is it, the plan we’ve been looking for. We isolate each of them, let ’em hear us talk about how the other’s violently in love, and see what happens.’

‘Adam,’ said Wensleydale severely, ‘you can’t experiment on Aziraphale and Crowley. I’ve read about experiments. There’re codes you need to follow, about ethics and suchlike. The subjects have to be consenting.’

‘They’ll do plenty of consenting, if it works,’ said Adam, and he smiled as Pepper and Brian snickered, but Wensleydale shook his head.

‘It’s called informed consent,’ said Wensleydale. ‘You have to explain the purpose of the experiment, what you’re going to do to them and why, and they have to sign a form saying they agree and understand. Otherwise it’s unethical.’

‘I didn’t mean like a real scientific experiment,’ said Adam. ‘We just do what the characters in the play do. Are you saying Don Pedro and the others were unethical?’

‘Extremely,’ said Wensleydale. ‘They were just lucky Benedick and Beatrice really loved each other.’

‘Well, there you have it, then,’ said Adam. ‘Crowley and Aziraphale really love each other. We all agree on that, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’ He paused for a moment, his Antichrist guilt bubbling back to the surface. ‘We do agree on that, right?’

‘Course,’ said Pepper. ‘But I think Wensley’s right. It’d be wrong to do it as an experiment. But what about just a party game, or a regular old jape? I think that’s more what Don Pedro was going for anyway.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brian, ‘that sounds better to me, too. Definitely a jolly sight more interestin’ than some scientific experiment.’

‘But how would it be different?’ Wensleydale asked. ‘Calling it something else doesn’t change the rules.’

‘Oh, we’ll play by the rules,’ said Adam. He had never played by the rules in his life and wasn’t keen to start now, but he had his own moral code, summed up in three words, which hewed closer to the letter and the spirit of Wensleydale’s rules than he wanted to admit. ‘Maybe bend ’em a little, but that’s all. There must be a way to do it so they don’t get hurt. That’s what the rules are for, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Wensleydale, ‘in part. It’s also so the scientists aren’t liable if it all goes wrong.’

‘It won’t go wrong,’ said Adam, as much to himself as to Wensleydale. ‘We’ll make sure of it. Tell you what, let’s go see Anathema and Newt. We can ask them what they think.’

‘Not sure how that’s going to help with our essays,’ said Wensleydale, but essays had never ranked particularly high on Adam’s list of priorities, and Wensleydale knew that as well as anyone. Pepper and Brian slung their bags over their shoulders, and with a sigh, he followed suit.

*

Anathema sipped a cup of tea as Adam recounted his brainwave, interrupted at intervals by Wensleydale’s ethical considerations. She scarcely dared to look at Newt, not when she could sense flustered embarrassment at the mere thought of being drafted into a teenagers’ matchmaking scheme radiating off of him.

Ordinarily, she’d agree that they ought to maintain some standard of mature adulthood. But on the other hand, Aziraphale and Crowley had had six thousand years to notice what was immediately, blindingly obvious to everyone who came into contact with them, and if trying to save the world together, however ineptly, hadn’t switched that lightbulb on, nothing would do. As such, there was only one problem that she could see.

‘Adam,’ she said, once he had finished his pitch and was looking at her expectantly, ‘I don’t necessarily disagree with your analogy, but Crowley and Aziraphale have got an advantage over Shakespeare’s characters. They’re six thousand years old.’

‘But zero years wise,’ said Adam, with a hopeful grin belying the need for validation she could sense pouring out of him, the hesitance he was so loath to express. ‘It’ll work. Trust me.’

‘That’s not the problem,’ said Anathema. ‘I meant that _Much Ado About Nothing_ isn’t obscure, and Aziraphale and Crowley were around in Shakespeare’s time. They probably saw it in its original run. And even if not, Aziraphale has surely got a first edition in his shop. They’ll work it out.’

‘But that’s perfect, then,’ said Adam, a grin of renewed confidence breaking out across his face. ‘See, Wensley? It’s not unethical at all, not if they’ll know what we’re doing. All they’ll have to do is ask themselves why, and if that doesn’t set them thinking, they’re really hopeless. All we’ve got to do now is set the scene.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Newt, plainly unconvinced. Anathema thought she could bring him round, but it might take more work than she’d anticipated.

Adam shrugged. ‘Arrange things. Get each of them alone. When would you two be free to go down to London?’

‘Er,’ said Newt, ‘this is all moving rather quickly, wouldn’t you say? I’m not sure it’s a good idea to meddle in the affairs of…of…’

‘Celestial prats?’ asked Adam, and this time Anathema couldn’t contain her snorting laughter. ‘I’ve got it all worked out. We’ve just got to pick a day to do it.’

‘What do you need us for, then?’ asked Newt. Adam grinned.

‘To drive,’ he said, ‘obviously. But c’mon, you’ve seen how they are. And you know what they are, and what I am. You’re part of this.’ He paused, reshaping his expression into its trademark calculated innocence, with a dash of puppydog pleading. He’d worn this look better as an eleven-year-old, but it wasn’t quite past its sell-by date. ‘I guess we could take the train, though, if you’re very busy.’

‘Well,’ said Anathema. She tried to sound nonchalant, but the emotion that had risen up in her at Adam’s previous comment rendered that rather challenging. ‘It looks like they’re going to attempt this with or without us, Newt. It’s probably better if we’re there.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Newt asked, staring at her. ‘Do you really think this is a good plan?’

Anathema grinned. ‘I didn’t say that. But for now, it’s the plan we’ve got, and someone’s got to do something, for somebody’s sake.’

*

‘You can’t be serious,’ said Newt, after the Them had departed, at Wensleydale’s insistence, to get a start on their homework. ‘This is madness, Anathema. We’re their grown-up friends. We ought to talk them out of it, not aid and abet them.’

Anathema sighed. ‘Talking Adam out of anything is no mean feat,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘and I’ve been thinking about that grown-up friends thing.’

Newt raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you mean?’ Anathema looked more sombre than he’d expected, and for a moment he felt guilty about his lack of enthusiasm.

‘Adam and his friends are fifteen years old,’ said Anathema. She gathered up the teacups, motioning for him to join her at the kitchen sink. ‘It was one thing when he was eleven, and he’d never met any adults even halfway interesting before. Of course he’d come over all the time then.’

She turned away from him, rummaging about for the sink stopper, but she clearly hadn’t finished, so Newt waited, as patiently as he could, and upon finding it, she handed it to him and continued. ‘But you’d think that at some point, he’d grow out of it. The novelty would wear off, and he and the others would just get wrapped up in whatever it is teenagers do these days. How many fifteen-year-old boys do you know who want to spend their birthdays hanging out with their weird older neighbours, year after year?’

Newt filled the sink with water, and Anathema busied herself searching for rags. He could understand her point all right, but he couldn’t see how it was relevant to abdicating responsibility to rein in Adam’s sudden determination to butt into immortal private lives. ‘Only Adam,’ he said, ‘but it’s not as simple as that. He said it himself, just now. We know what he is. We’re his family, in a way.’

‘Exactly,’ said Anathema, ‘and so are Crowley and Aziraphale. We’re all family, at this point.’

‘So, what?’ asked Newt. ‘We’re doing this for the Family?’ He attempted a mobster accent, and if Anathema’s cringe was anything to go by, failed.

‘Adam’s methods may be dramatic,’ said Anathema, ‘literally and figuratively, but there’s no malice in this. He just wants to make them happy. As long as we’re there to keep him in check, it should be fine.’

Newt threw up his hands in defeat, forgetting that this is never a bright idea when one’s arms are immersed to the elbows in soapy water. Anathema coughed, dabbed her blouse with a rag meant for the tea set, and splashed some water right back at him, and so it went, until they were both soaked.

‘Some grown-ups we are,’ said Newt, and Anathema smiled at him.

‘We’ll have to do,’ she said, and his resolve weakened under the fondness of her gaze. He couldn’t see auras, or sense emotions, or do any manner of other psychic things that Anathema could do, but sometimes he swore she could project love outwards, warming every room she was in.

‘Not how it works,’ she said, stepping into his embrace, ‘but if you could do any of those psychic things, you’d know that’s an apt description of what Crowley and Aziraphale do whenever they’re together. They don’t mean to; they just can’t help it.’

‘You really think this is a good idea?’ he asked, addressing the top of her head.

‘Probably not,’ she admitted, ‘but it might be a fun one.’


	3. Act III, Scene 1

Eleven o’clock came and went, and Aziraphale reluctantly opened his shop. A grey mist hung low about the streets, which he hoped would do its bit to depress his sales, along with the late opening and the early closing for lunch with the Tadfield group. He wasn’t clear on just what they were doing in London, but it was always lovely to see them—

Think of the humans. Aziraphale blinked, half-convinced he’d imagined them, but there they stood, waving at him from outside the shop window. Adam, as usual, stood out, his face split by a preternaturally charming grin that could only mean he was up to no good, but no true wickedness either. It was a curious thing, that expression of his. Coming from anyone else, it might have been unnerving, but from Adam it was as soothing as anything had ever been. He and Crowley had that in common, Aziraphale thought. His heart warmed as he remembered so many times Crowley had smiled like a villain, whilst behaving like anything but—

Pepper made an impatient gesture. She mouthed something that looked, from a distance, like ‘can we come in or can’t we’, and Aziraphale blushed and waved the door open. They laughed and filed in, one by one, careful not to upset the organised chaos of the books.

‘Hello,’ he said, with a warmth he usually reserved for one visitor only. ‘I haven’t misremembered the time, have I?’

‘Course not,’ said Adam. ‘We’re here as customers. Anathema needs a book. A rare book, on witch stuff.’

Aziraphale thought he saw an expression of consternation pass over Anathema’s face, but if it had done, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Right,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Yes. I was wondering if you had, er, _The Old Straight Track_ , by Alfred Watkins?’

‘I might do,’ said Aziraphale, pursing his lips. He shouldn’t be so reluctant to sell to Anathema, but given her history with the prophecies—

‘I don’t need to buy it,’ said Anathema, smiling at him as though she knew what he was thinking, which he supposed she might do. ‘If you have it, I can photocopy the relevant bits.’

‘I haven’t got a copier—’ Aziraphale began, before he noticed Adam’s thumbs up sign. ‘That is to say, I hadn’t. Very well, Anathema. Back in a jiffy.’

‘Thank you,’ said Anathema, and as he turned away, he thought he heard an excited whisper, but soon put it out of his mind when _The Old Straight Track_ didn’t appear to be filed where it was meant to be. Aziraphale deliberately kept his filing system as opaque as possible where outsiders were concerned, but he had never managed to deceive himself before.

He tried another section, drawing back towards them, close enough to hear what they were saying—

‘Poor Crowley,’ said Adam, and Aziraphale instantly forgot his errand. Whatever could be wrong with him? They’d dined at the Ritz the night before, and Crowley hadn’t appeared unwell. On the contrary, he’d been in high spirits, drinking and talking into the wee hours, sobering up just to drink some more, exuding a warmth and a _joie de vivre_ quite as intoxicating as the wine itself—

‘Must be terrible, bein’ in love with someone who doesn’t notice in the least,’ Adam continued, and that made even less sense. Crowley? In love? But demons didn’t—

‘I don’t see why he doesn’t just tell Aziraphale,’ said Pepper. ‘I mean, six-thousand-year friendship and all. You’d think he could be honest with him, with that kind of history.’

Aziraphale nodded emphatically, as though anyone could see him. They’d saved the world together, or at least tried their best; there could never be any need for secrecy between them now. If Crowley was in love with a human, he must know he could tell Aziraphale. Was he afraid Aziraphale would tease him for it, a demon in love? If it meant that much to Crowley, Aziraphale could find it in himself to be sensitive about it, even as an unpleasant flush crept up his neck at the idea. Quite why this should be the case, he couldn’t say—

‘He can’t!’ Brian declared. ‘He’ll die. He’ll absolutely sodding die if Aziraphale doesn’t love him back.’

What? Not a human, then, but—it couldn’t be—

‘Yeah,’ said Adam, ‘that’s exactly right. He’ll prolly drive his car into a lake full of holy water if Aziraphale doesn’t want him.’

‘Nah,’ said Wensleydale, ‘he wouldn’t do that. He likes his car too much.’

‘OK, then he’d dive in,’ said Adam, warming to his subject like a trader in seventeenth century books of prophecy. ‘Headfirst, like they tell you not to do at the pool. Point is, he’ll die.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brian. ‘Every night he lies awake, wishing Aziraphale were with him, and then he cries to his plants about how they can’t be together. He said so.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t say that,’ said Anathema. Aziraphale detected a note of amusement in her voice, which aggrieved him on Crowley’s behalf—

‘OK,’ said Brian quickly, ‘not exactly that, but he didn’t have to. His puppy eyes said it all.’

‘What makes him so sure that they can’t be together, though?’ asked Pepper. ‘Aziraphale’s an angel, right? Isn’t it his job to love?’

‘That’s just it, though, isn’t it?’ said Adam. ‘Crowley won’t be happy unless Aziraphale loves him for him, completely, not just ’cause he’s s’posed to love all God’s creatures. If he can’t have that, he might as well just go back to being a snake.’

‘He could shed his skin on Aziraphale’s doorstep,’ said Brian. ‘Like a metaphor.’

‘That’s not what a metaphor is,’ said Wensleydale, and the distant part of Aziraphale’s mind that was able to do anything other than reel apart at this news dimly registered that he was correct. ‘A metaphor’s like a simile, ’cept it doesn’t use “like” or “as”. That’s just a message.’

‘OK, a message, then,’ said Brian. ‘Dearest Aziraphale, look what I’ve been reduced to. Kiss me so I can turn into a human.’

Aziraphale understood, through his shock, that Brian was being sarcastic, but while he had no desire to kiss Crowley in snake form, the idea of kissing the human-shaped version wasn’t nearly as unappealing. Aziraphale could even go so far as to say that it wasn’t unappealing at all, quite the opposite in fact, which was odd, as he’d never really wanted to kiss anyone before—

‘Amazing, really, that Aziraphale hasn’t noticed,’ said Pepper, after no small amount of laughter had died down. ‘Right daft, that is, for someone so smart.’

‘Well,’ said Newt, ‘if it takes him this long to find a book he presumably filed himself—’

Aziraphale flushed, or, to be nicer and more accurate, flushed more. He scanned the shelves surrounding him, and there the book lay, right in front of his face. He scooped it up, then made his way over to them, peals of laughter ringing in his ears. He cleared his throat, and they shut up at once, turning to him like a six-headed manifestation of temptation and guilt.

‘I was thinking,’ he said, painfully aware of his voice trembling, ‘you might as well just take the book and bring it back when you’ve made your notes. I’m going to have to close the shop for the time being, lots to do before one o’clock.’

‘Course,’ said Adam. ‘Don’t let us keep you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Anathema, as they filed out into the street. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’

‘Right,’ Aziraphale babbled. ‘Tip-top. Jolly good.’

Once they had filed out, he flipped the Closed sign, then drew the shades for good measure. Crowley. In love. With him. Flying in the face of everything a demon was supposed to be, but that was what Crowley had always done. He’d never truly been evil, merely mischievous and terrifyingly clever about it, and so thoughtful when he deigned to direct that cleverness towards softer pursuits. The spark of goodness whose existence he determinedly denied wasn’t so much a spark as a roaring bonfire, burning with a fierce love for the Earth, for humanity and, apparently, for Aziraphale.

None of it should be possible, but that was Crowley, marvel that he was. And that he should waste away in despair, when Aziraphale could prevent it?

‘Crowley,’ he whispered, his hand clutched over his heart, ‘love on. And I, in turn, shall love you with a love far beyond my requisite purview as an angel, yet one requiring no special effort of any kind. Yes,’ he added, his heart racing, ‘I shall be, henceforth, wholly and entirely in love with you.’

*

‘Right,’ said Adam, cheerfully, ‘one down, one to go.’

Anathema adjusted her hold on _The Old Straight Track_. She’d read it before, of course, but it had been the only book she could think of in the moment. ‘Adam,’ she said, shaking her head with an expression she wished she could convince to convey proper annoyance, ‘next time I’m the linchpin of one of your plans, you’ve got to tell me first. Now I’ve got to keep one of Aziraphale’s books in pristine condition while we walk around London or face literal divine retribution.’

‘Next time?’ asked Newt, his eyes widening.

‘Well, yeah,’ said Adam. ‘We’ve still got to pay a visit to Crowley, haven’t we?’

‘But did we get Aziraphale?’ asked Pepper. ‘Did it work?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Adam, grinning. ‘He’s limed, I’ll warrant you.’ He turned to Anathema. ‘You can feel it, can’t you?’

Anathema smiled, softening in spite of herself, as the others looked at both of them, confused. ‘The air’s different,’ she explained. ‘It feels like home. Like Tadfield, I mean, and what Adam made of it.’

Adam preened. ‘See?’ he said. ‘I’m always to be trusted in these matters.’

‘Too far,’ said Newt, shaking his head, as the Them nodded in agreement.


	4. Act III, Scene 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a brutal act of violence against a houseplant. In other words, perfectly routine gardening, but given who's doing it...

Crowley glared at his plants with practised malevolence, spraying the plastic mister with violent accuracy. ‘Aloe,’ he said, shaking his head contemptuously. ‘You heal burns, is that right? How sweet of you. But there’s nothing you’ll be able to do for this pathetic fern, if he doesn’t shape up. Consider this your last warning, fern. And the rest of you—’

He was interrupted by the doorbell. The last time he’d received unexpected visitors, only the weapon of the enemy had saved him. In an instant, his tense glare ceased to be an act.

‘Yessss?’ he hissed into the buzzer, which was more than a little embarrassing, if he was honest with himself. He and Aziraphale had had four straight years of no blessed celestial or infernal communication; he had no reason to be so on edge as to forget human speech patterns.

‘It’s us,’ said a voice instantly recognisable as that of Adam Young, even to those, like Crowley, who didn’t regularly hear it. ‘Can we come up? We need a favour.’

‘Oh,’ said Crowley, relaxing. ‘Sure, I guess.’ They’d never visited his flat before, and he couldn’t think why they would do now, but whatever they wanted, it wouldn’t end with his or his angel’s dismemberment. So that was all right.

He turned back to the plants. ‘Grow better,’ he growled, with as much of his swagger as he could muster. Presently there were knocks at the door, and all six of them filed in, Anathema and Newt trailing the Them, who looked askance at the soullessly immaculate furnishings.

‘What’s up?’ Crowley asked. He had nominally addressed Adam, but it was Anathema who answered him.

‘Newt and I are starting a garden,’ she said, with a strangely amused smile. ‘We wondered if you could spare us some cuttings. A rose plant, perhaps? Or even’—she paused, as though suddenly struck by inspiration—‘hostas or ferns? Anything, really. We’re quite new to this.’

Crowley grinned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered whether, on this particular occasion, Anathema had Agnes’ or Adam’s gifts to thank for her truly impeccable timing. ‘No rose plant,’ he said, ‘but I can help you out with the fern. He was due for a lesson anyway.’ He sauntered out of the room, miracled a blade into his hand and held it up with enthusiasm, determinedly ignoring the humans’ soft chuckles. The fern quivered under his stare, and he smiled like a snake.

‘Turns out you’ve got fans after all,’ he whispered, looming over it with relish. ‘Too bad I’m not among them.’ He brought the blade down, and the plants emitted a uniform scream only Dog could have heard. Once he had obtained three cuttings from the shaking fern, Crowley gave each plant more targeted glare, then turned on his heel, the fern cuttings trying desperately to escape his fingers. Satisfied, he headed into the kitchen for pots.

‘Poor Aziraphale,’ said Adam’s voice from the foyer, and Crowley stopped dead, paying no heed to the wriggling cuttings.

Poor Aziraphale? Had someone come after him? The humans seemed too calm for that to be the case, but if someone had hurt his angel, they would pay—

‘Bein’ in love sounds awful,’ Adam continued. ‘You’ll never catch me at it, that’s for sure.’

‘Nor me,’ Pepper agreed, and Wensleydale and Brian both echoed her. Crowley was confused. Of course love was awful, but what did that have to do with Aziraphale? Was he all right?

Newt laughed a hesitant laugh. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It has got, ah, certain advantages.’ The Them groaned in unison, and if Newt was implying what Crowley thought he was implying, he couldn’t say he blamed them.

‘You’re different, though,’ said Pepper. ‘You love each other back. Aziraphale can’t even tell Crowley about his feelings.’

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes widened to a preternatural degree, and the ferns went still in his hands, equally transfixed. Aziraphale? Feelings? Love? What in somebody’s name was going on?

‘Why not, though?’ asked Wensleydale, giving voice to Crowley’s confusion and vague hurt. ‘They’ve been friends for six millennia. They teamed up against Heaven and Hell together. It’s not like Crowley would just abandon him.’

Crowley nodded vigorously. Being a demon, he could hardly be expected to understand love, but he likewise understood little of sushi, books of prophecy, or human conjuring tricks, and if the last of those hadn’t driven him to quit Aziraphale’s company, nothing could do. Aziraphale had to know that, hadn’t he? If it meant that much, he could be—urgh—nice. He’d just get drunk first. He had a half a mind to drain a bottle of wine right now anyway, to calm himself down. Quite why he should need calming, why he should be shaking as badly as the fern cuttings had been, when he’d been exultant mere minutes ago, he couldn’t say—

‘Course not,’ said Adam, ‘but demons don’t fall in love, as far as anyone knows, and if Crowley rejects Aziraphale, he’ll be so depressed he might as well go back to Heaven. _The Sound of Music_ couldn’t be any worse than knowing Crowley doesn’t feel the same way.’

What? So Aziraphale wasn’t merely in love with a human and afraid of Crowley’s contempt, but in love with him? He couldn’t be—

‘Adam,’ said Anathema, sounding amused, ‘you of all people ought to know it’s hardly a given that demons don’t fall in love. Remind me again why you, the literal Antichrist, didn’t end the world? And why Crowley didn’t want the world to end any more than the rest of us did? That’s love, even if it isn’t romantic love.’

‘I didn’t say I believed that,’ said Adam, affronted. ‘Course it’s possible, but as far as anybody knows, it’s never happened before. So you can’t blame Aziraphale being scared of telling Crowley, ’specially when it’s romantic love that he wants.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brian, with the eager air of someone who has been wanting to chime in for some time, ‘and when he’s got it this bad. ’S’all very well for Crowley to love the Earth, but it’s not the same as marching into Aziraphale’s bookshop and snogging him senseless like he wants him to. Heaven’s a picnic next to wanting that and knowing he can’t ever have it.’

The fern cuttings wriggled in Crowley’s hand again, but this was a different sort of wriggling than before. Now, rather than begging for their lives, they seemed to be almost laughing at him. Crowley glared at them again, or tried to, but it seemed that mere minutes were all he needed to lose his touch, probably because all he could think about was grabbing Aziraphale, pushing him against a bookshelf, and kissing him as humans kissed. He’d never seen the appeal of kissing before, and now, he wondered why. And if Aziraphale wanted it, it was practically Crowley’s job to deliver. That was temptation, looking deep into hearts and minds and offering just the thing the temptee desired above all else.

Except that Crowley had never really wanted to tempt Aziraphale. He’d done it, of course—dine at the Ritz, open a bottle of wine rivalling the bookshop’s property value, save the world—but it had never felt like demonic punch clock work, because there was no advantage to the forces of Hell in the outcome. Smiling and miraculously refilling wine glasses until Aziraphale agreed to something that would make them both happy was just for themselves, and the joy of life on Earth, together. Could kissing him fall under that?

‘Lower your voice,’ said Anathema. ‘He’ll hear us, if we’re not careful. It can’t take that long to cut off some bits of plant.’

‘Serve him right if he did,’ said Adam. He sounded, on the whole, more amused than defensive, but Crowley didn’t have space in his head to give this much thought. He miracled clay pots of soil around the cuttings and gave them one last, fierce glare.

‘Grow roots,’ he commanded them. ‘I’ll know if you don’t.’ Then he carried them into the foyer, where the six humans stood, their faces twisted into cloyingly innocent smiles, and he held the plants out to Anathema.

‘You’ll have to get tough with them,’ he said, trying to arrange his expression into his best devil-may-care smile and acutely aware that he was failing miserably. ‘They come from a line of troublemakers.’

Anathema laughed. ‘Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.’ She nodded to Newt and the Them. ‘Shall we?’

‘Right,’ said Adam. ‘See you at lunch, Crowley.’

‘One o’clock,’ Anathema reminded him.

‘Like I could forget,’ said Crowley. ‘See you then.’ They filed out, and he sank down onto his couch. His world hadn’t felt this off-kilter since the Fall.

Aziraphale. In love. With him. Crowley couldn’t return his love, being a demon…unless Anathema and Adam were right? Could he love Aziraphale, as naturally and completely as the Earth?

His heart pounded in his chest. He thought of Aziraphale sitting at his desk, meticulously checking over his accounts, walled off and alone with a hurt for which he, Crowley, was directly responsible. And hadn’t he just sworn to make anyone hurting Aziraphale pay for it? And if Aziraphale went back to Heaven, leaving an angel-shaped hole in his life, his beloved Earth would instantly become indistinguishable from Hell.

So demons didn’t fall in love, unless they did. He hadn’t been able to sense Adam’s love that first night in Tadfield, when Aziraphale had babbled on about anti-spookiness, but the times they’d returned there, even during the Christmas blizzards that still came down like clockwork, the air had always felt strangely warm, just like—

Just like he’d always felt in the presence of Aziraphale. He’d simply missed the forest for the trees.

‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘Aziraphale is...just enough of a bastard to be worth loving.’ He started to grin like an idiot.

The air around him seemed to shift. Crowley started, only to realise that his previously perfectly terrified plants now trembled with what had to be their equivalent of full, belly laughter.

‘What are you looking at?’ he snarled. They quietened, but the damage was done. He could think on it later. For now, he had to get ready. His heart thundered in a most pleasant way: he would be seeing Aziraphale soon.

*

Adam smiled as the six of them crossed the street. ‘If he do not dote on him upon this, I will never trust my expectation.’

Pepper rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t quote Claudio, Adam. I still say he’s a right wanker. He’s ready to shame Hero in front of everyone before he even sees anything.’

‘Well,’ said Anathema, turning to Newt, ‘you can’t say they aren’t learning.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brian, grinning. ‘I tied Wensley in an exam. First time ever.’


	5. Act IV, Scene 1

Crowley pointed to the Bentley’s ignition key. ‘This thing called love,’ Freddie Mercury sang, ‘I just can’t handle it, I ain’t ready—’

Great. Now his car was taunting him. He sped towards Aziraphale’s bookshop, trying not to look or sound too eager. He ought to be able to compose himself. He was simply picking Aziraphale up, which he’d done so many times since acquiring the Bentley that they no longer bothered to arrange it, but simply assumed. Nothing different today, except that he was in love with Aziraphale.

Crowley skidded to a halt, sending several pedestrians fleeing in terror, and glared the ‘No Parking’ signs out of existence. Aziraphale’s shop appeared to be closed, and Crowley smiled as he thought of the legions of unsold books that, if the angel had anything to say about it, would remain so. Then he knocked on the door, and suddenly his heart was racing.

The door swung open immediately, even though Aziraphale didn’t seem to have miracled it open. He looked flushed and nervous, not unlike Crowley felt. Could that be a mark of love?

‘Crowley,’ said Aziraphale, speaking uncharacteristically fast, ‘how, er, how thoughtful of you.’

Crowley shrugged, hoping he looked casual while knowing full well he was practically gaping at the sight of his angel. ‘’S’what we’ve always done,’ he managed to say. ‘No trouble, really. You ready?’

‘Quite,’ said Aziraphale, making an odd movement with his arm as he did so, almost as though he had been about to offer it to Crowley, only to remember that the twentieth century continued to reign supreme. For the first time, Crowley found himself equally annoyed with it. He tried, hopelessly, to stop smiling.

‘Well,’ he said, as he attempted and likely failed to turn his own instinctive, mad attempt to offer his arm to Aziraphale into a flamboyant gesture in the direction of the Bentley. ‘Shall we?’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, beaming in a way that sorely tested Crowley’s self-control with regard to this whole kissing thing. ‘Of course. After you, my dear.’

Crowley nodded, and he winked at the Bentley. The passenger door opened, and London traffic halted, frozen in time. He gestured towards Aziraphale, and Aziraphale beamed back at him, and oh, he was not making it easy, not at all. Crowley wished they could just make their excuses, as humans did, even though he’d looked forward to the lunch as recently as this morning. Now, all he wanted was to be alone with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale slipped into the passenger seat, conscientiously fastening a safety belt that the Bentley didn’t usually feature. Crowley avoided his eyes, reversing down Wardour Street at a literally and figuratively inhuman speed. They just had to get it over with. What was an hour or two to six-millennia-old beings? They’d get through the lunch, and then he could assure Aziraphale that his love was returned and kiss him for a few years or so. They didn’t need to breathe, after all.

*

As Agnes Nutter’s last prophesied descendant, Anathema was no stranger to celebratory meals devolving into to contests of cringe. Drunk Uncle Edmund Device had first made reference to certain events in her future when she was still very much in the ‘boys are gross’ phase, and even then, she had instantly known from her mother’s resigned look that Agnes had also predicted these obnoxious comments.

Crowley and Aziraphale’s positively glowing expressions when they looked at each other, promptly dissolving into embarrassed flushes when one or the other noticed, made even the memory of that night feel positively quaint, even cute. She, Newt, and all four Them had ordered; Aziraphale and Crowley had only to register the server’s presence sometime this century.

‘Speak, ’tis your cue,’ said Adam, and Anathema buried her nose in the menu she should have surrendered to the server, desperate not to laugh.

‘Right,’ said Crowley. He managed to look even more embarrassed, which shouldn’t have been possible. ‘Uh. House salad. Merlot.’

‘What sort of dressing, sir?’ asked the server.

‘What were my options?’ he asked, not looking at the menu, where they were clearly listed. The server scanned the room, noting the other tables waiting for her. Crowley couldn’t have irritated her better if he’d been trying. Anathema made a mental note to tip her extra.

‘Ranch, Caesar, Balsamic, French, or Italian, sir,’ said the server. Anathema felt the point of her pencil breaking through the top page of her notepad as keenly as a drill press through her own head.

‘Sure,’ said Crowley, already back to gazing at Aziraphale. ‘The last one. Whatever.’

‘Right,’ said the server. ‘House salad, Italian dressing, Merlot. And for you, sir?’ She turned to Aziraphale, who hadn’t even opened his own menu.

‘Ah,’ said Aziraphale, tearing his eyes from Crowley with a look of tortured longing. He cleared his throat, summoning a bit more dignity than the demon had managed, but not much. ‘Yes. The salmon, if you would, and Muscadet.’

The server shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t carry Muscadet.’

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, his disapproval so thoroughly undermined by his adoring looks at Crowley that Anathema would have been amused if she weren’t so hungry. ‘Well. House white, in that case.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the server tersely, racing off to the next table. Crowley gave Aziraphale a knowing wink, and Aziraphale blushed, turning away.

‘I don’t see what the big deal is about wine,’ said Brian, around a mouthful of bread. ‘It’s just like grape juice, only worse.’

‘When you’re older,’ said Newt hastily, as Aziraphale and Crowley both immediately looked up, scandalised to the point of momentarily forgetting their embarrassment. Anathema did what she had to admit was a rather poor job of disguising her resulting snicker with a cough, but it didn’t matter. She could have fallen out of her chair, convulsing with laughter, and Crowley and Aziraphale would hardly have noticed.

‘So,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘what have you two been up to? The usual slacking?’

‘Slacking?’ said Aziraphale, with unconvincing offence. ‘Us?’

‘Oh,’ said Anathema sardonically, ‘sorry. I’m sure you’ve been quite as productive as ever, with all the temptation and the moments of divine ecstasy—’ She waved a hand about, trying to make it look as though she were searching for more descriptors, giving them time to turn sufficiently interesting shades of purple. Across the table, Adam flashed a thumbs-up. ‘Whatever you call it these days. The usual ten minutes of work?’

‘Well,’ said Crowley, looking and sounding choked, ‘er—’

‘Hope so, anyway,’ Adam chimed in. ‘No more messin’ about, remember?’ He grinned at both of them. ‘Or just spend more time together, so you’ll cancel each other out straight away.’

‘But we don’t need to tell you that, right?’ said Pepper. ‘I mean, you came here together, after all.’

‘Well,’ said Aziraphale. The temperature in the room crawled upwards at his blush, and Anathema lifted her hair away from her neck. This, too, was a more effective torment than Crowley could have devised. She hoped their impending coupling wouldn’t result in him taking notes on Aziraphale’s tunnel vision. ‘Yes, I suppose we did. Crowley was ever so—’

‘Stop it,’ said Crowley. He tried to glare and failed so badly that even Newt struggled to keep a straight face.

‘Stop what, my dear?’ asked Aziraphale, his expression surprisingly serious. ‘I was merely going to say that you had been—’

‘Kind,’ said Crowley. He spat out the word, but juxtaposed with his complete inability to stop smiling, the intended intimidation sounded more like a frog in his throat. The server arrived with their drinks, doubtless hurried along by Adam, and Anathema took a long sip of water as he continued. ‘You were going to say “kind”, which I am not—’

‘You are actually kind, though,’ said Wensleydale sensibly. ‘I mean, you didn’t have to give him a ride.’

‘It’s us, Crowley,’ said Anathema, once she felt certain she wouldn’t burst out laughing at him. ‘Your secret’s safe.’

‘Yeah,’ said Adam, slurping his Coke. ‘We’re your friends. You know that.’

Aziraphale took a sip of wine, wrinkled his nose with a disgust that couldn’t reach his eyes, blinked it into what Anathema assumed must be Muscadet, and took another sip. He did all of this while staring at Crowley as though wondering whether his lips might be equally delectable, then seemed to notice belatedly that Crowley’s discomfort was real, and dropped his gaze in deference.

‘You’ve never been genuinely malicious,’ he said softly, and Crowley’s eyes widened. Anathema couldn’t see them, but she bloody well felt it, like the entire room’s breath had caught. ‘Ingeniously devious, of course, but…what was it you said to me, about Good and Evil? Just names for sides?’

‘Yeah,’ said Adam brightly, as unconcerned as ever about intruding on a private moment, ‘and we’ve all gone and made our own side.’

Aziraphale dared to raise his eyes back to Crowley’s, and Anathema could feel the demon soften, helpless to resist such beseeching love. He shifted forward, and so did Aziraphale—

And the server chose that moment to reappear with their food, because of course she did. Adam nodded in confirmation, and as hungry as Anathema had been a minute ago, her soup now seemed quite the secondary concern.

‘Enjoy your meals,’ said the server, with a smile Anathema wouldn’t have expected, given how annoying they’d been. But Crowley and Aziraphale’s auras shone with such an arresting rainbow of heart-stopping new love and seasoned, lifelong love and sweet hesitation and urgent desire that they were practically blinding, and Anathema supposed the server must feel it as much as anyone in the café, even if she didn’t know why.

‘Thanks,’ said Adam. He grinned at her, then turned back to them. ‘Anyway, you’re honorary humans now.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Crowley, a warm and sincere smile he wouldn’t have liked to be thought capable of now bursting through with renewed confidence. He lifted his glass and clinked it first against Aziraphale’s, then each of the others’ in turn. Then he looked down at his plate.

‘Ugh,’ he said, ‘did I order red with salad?’

‘I’m afraid you did, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, with unbearable fondness.

Crowley blinked, and the red wine turned white. ‘Fine,’ he said, with a self-effacing smile. ‘I’m kind, tell the world. Just never, ever mention that.’

‘You have my word, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, looking for all the world like he wanted to take Crowley’s hand. The room might as well have been on fire.

*

‘Well,’ said Adam, as they piled into Dick Turpin, ‘I’d say that worked perfectly.’

Newt squinted through the rear-view mirror. Aziraphale and Crowley stood on opposite sides of the Bentley, staring at each other over the roof of the car as though they’d forgot how to perform such basic tasks as opening doors. ‘Er,’ he said, ‘we didn’t, ah, break them, did we?’

‘They’ll figure it out,’ Anathema assured him, with an easy smile that reassured him somewhat, but not entirely.

‘C’mon,’ said Pepper. ‘We’ve got to get out of here before they realise what we did.’

‘Just tell me one thing,’ said Newt, even as a voice in his head told him he would likely regret asking. ‘We weren’t ever this bad, were we?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ said Anathema hurriedly.


	6. Act IV, Scene 2

‘Right,’ said Crowley, pulling up by the kerb. ‘There you are. Er—’ He broke off, as though overcome by nerves. Aziraphale had half a mind to seize his hand and hold it tight, but he restrained himself. It would be far easier to have this conversation in the comfort of the bookshop.

‘Would you like to come inside?’ he asked, his voice trembling just a bit. ‘We could split a bottle or several?’

‘Sure,’ said Crowley, brightening. ‘Absolutely. Sounds great.’ His face grew red with heat, and warmed Aziraphale’s heart along with it.

 _You’ve nothing to fear, my dearest Crowley,_ he thought. _Just as soon as we’re out of the street, I’ll prove to you that your love is returned._ He extricated himself from the Bentley, and Crowley followed.

‘After you, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, his face burning in a way that wasn’t at all unpleasant, and Crowley smiled so fondly at the ritual that it was all he could do not to kiss him right there.

They proceeded to the back room, and Aziraphale retrieved a bottle of Château Lafite, because Crowley did prefer red when he wasn’t mindlessly saddling himself with house salad just to get a server out of his hair. He poured two glasses and handed one to Crowley, who drank deeply.

The liquid courage, however gauchely consumed, seemed to do the trick. Crowley patted the space next to him on the sofa with a grin that tried to be seductive and, despite his nervous flush, succeeded. Aziraphale’s wine sloshed about his glass as he sat down, and Crowley closed his hand around his, steadying it, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled with joy and love, even more so when he realised that their faces were now inches apart.

‘You could have miracled it still,’ he managed to say. Crowley’s face fell a bit, and Aziraphale hastened to clarify. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley. ‘Glad that’s settled.’ He looked embarrassed again, as though he could scarcely believe he’d just said that, and took another deep drink of wine. When he looked up again, Aziraphale found himself annoyed with Crowley’s sunglasses. He suddenly wanted, more than anything else, to look into his demon’s eyes, so he reached up with his free hand to take them off. Crowley’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn’t resist, and he didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand either.

Aziraphale turned away for what couldn’t have been more than a second, but felt as agonisingly long as a century, to carefully set the sunglasses down on his coffee table. Then he turned back to Crowley, and his heart caught in his throat as he took in the look of pure love that his snake eyes expressed more honestly than any of divine origin.

‘Aziraphale,’ said Crowley, with obvious trepidation, ‘I—’

‘It’s all right, Crowley,’ said Aziraphale, beaming helplessly at him. ‘I love you too.’

‘That’s—that’s great,’ said Crowley, with a huge, snakelike grin. He started to lean closer, but then he froze. ‘Wait, what do you mean, “too”? That’s what I was going to say. That I love you too. Too.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Aziraphale. ‘What do you mean, my dear?’

‘I…heard things,’ said Crowley in a rush, drawing back from Aziraphale. ‘From the Tadfield contingent. They came to my flat before the lunch, and they were talking about—they said you were in love with me.’

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, his flush becoming much less pleasant as he realised what had happened. ‘Oh, dear. As it happens, they came here as well, and they said—’

‘That I was in love with you,’ said Crowley. Aziraphale nodded in confirmation, and Crowley let go of his hand to smack himself in the forehead. ‘They set us up.’

Aziraphale shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why would they do something like this? I suppose the children might think it a harmless prank, but Anathema and Newton?’

‘They must have figured the kids weren’t wrong,’ said Crowley. He suddenly looked very pale. ‘Were they?’

‘I—’ Aziraphale broke off, painfully aware that every second of he hesitated must be torturous for Crowley, but tortured himself by uncertainty.

‘Angel,’ said Crowley urgently, ‘it’s a simple question. Do you actually love me, or did you just feel sorry for me?’

‘Do you truly love me, then?’ Aziraphale countered. ‘Or was your declaration likewise born out of misplaced sympathy?’

‘Misssssssplaced?’ Crowley hissed, his face reddening once more, but this time to a much less inviting effect. ‘Right. Thanks for that. All I needed to know.’ He stood up to leave. ‘See you at the next Apocalypse.’

‘No!’ Aziraphale cried, surprising himself with how loudly and frantically the word had escaped him. ‘Crowley, wait!’ Crowley ignored him, crossing the room, and he whispered his last, best hope. ‘Please.’

In the doorway, Crowley turned around. ‘What?’

‘I had never entertained the idea,’ said Aziraphale honestly, ‘but when they forced me to consider it, loving you seemed the most perfectly natural and obvious way to feel about you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Certainly you are the only creature in creation I could ever love more than reason.’

 _More than reason._ The words stirred something in his memory. His eyebrows creased in thought, and his hand leapt to his mouth.

_Do not you love me?_

_Why, no; no more than reason._

And what had Adam said earlier? _Speak, ’tis your cue_?

‘Bless me,’ he murmured. ‘They’ve been reading _Much Ado About Nothing_.’

‘Sorry?’ said Crowley. He sounded calmer now, but still a little on edge.

‘The play,’ said Aziraphale. ‘You must remember. We saw it together in 1598. These days it’s taught in schools. I’ve had to chase more than one parent away from my first editions.’ He paused. ‘Adam and his friends must have read it and cast us, as it were, in the lead roles.’

‘Refresh me,’ said Crowley. ‘We saw a lot of plays back then. Shakespeare, I assume?’

‘Correct,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Perhaps it’s better if I show you. Sit down, make yourself at home. I’ll dig up some more bottles as well, but do be careful not to—’

‘I won’t spill,’ said Crowley. ‘I handled holy water, remember? But for the record, angel, this is not how I’d choose to spend a first date.’

*

Crowley shifted, refilling his wine glass mere pages in. At this rate, he’d empty Aziraphale’s cellar entirely, only to refill it and empty it again, before he reached the vicinity of a point. ‘Angel?’ he called. ‘When exactly does this get interesting? Or relevant?’

‘Act II, my dear,’ Aziraphale called back to him. He poked his head in. ‘Really, Crowley, I thought you liked Shakespeare’s comedies.’

‘As an evening out, sure,’ said Crowley. ‘As a primer on how and why Adam and company have seen fit to mess us about, hardly. Can’t you just tell me what the point is?’

Aziraphale shook his head. ‘I’ll fetch those other bottles,’ he said. ‘Truly, my dear, it’s best that you get the full context. It’s not just that they chose to borrow from this play, but what, based on its dénouement, they seem to have expected would happen next.’

‘Fine,’ said Crowley. ‘Fine. I’ll read the thing.’

So he did, polishing off some of the rarest wine on the planet as he went. And when he had finished, it was apparent enough what the Tadfield lot had taken from it, and he could even begrudgingly acknowledge that the parallel wasn’t entirely without merit. His reaction to Aziraphale’s supposed pining had followed Shakespeare’s script so closely it was frankly embarrassing, and so, evidently, had Aziraphale’s reaction to the idea of Crowley pining for him.

Still. They bloody well could have just said something. He sighed, turning back to page one. It was a lot to take in. He would just rest his eyes for a minute.

The next minute, sunlight streamed through the smudged windowpane, and Crowley’s back was aching and his head was pounding. He winced, miracling the hangover away, and sat up. He blinked, looking around for the play, suddenly wide awake with terror at the thought of having spilt wine on one of Aziraphale’s precious books after all—but it was safe on the coffee table, next to his sunglasses.

He grabbed both, then lay back again, pulling a blanket upwards. There hadn’t been one there earlier. Aziraphale must have fetched it for him while he slept. It felt warm, and not just in the mundane way all blankets were designed to feel warm, but marked by that simple act of consideration.

Of love.

Aziraphale wandered into the room. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ he said, as he set down a tray of coffee. ‘How did you sleep?’

Crowley smiled. He carefully set the play back down on the coffee table.

‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you,’ he said, with wonder that needed no acting. ‘Is not that strange?’

Aziraphale beamed, clutching his hands to his heart.

‘As strange as the thing I know not,’ he intoned from memory. ‘It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you.’ He sat down next to Crowley and joined him under the blanket, their faces tantalisingly close once again. ‘And you may believe me, my dear, without reservation.’

‘OK,’ said Crowley, an unnecessary breath caught in his throat, ‘I know they don’t kiss until the end, but we’ve wasted six millennia already.’

Aziraphale smiled. ‘Quite enough of a wait, I should think.’ He leaned forward, and Crowley did the same.

The Earth moved, which went without saying, because the Earth is always moving. But when six thousand years’ worth of Apocalypse-defying love speaks its name at last, it spreads such a tidal wave of warmth and joy throughout the surrounding area that for a moment even a literally infernal motorway can become a hopeful place.

‘What should we tell them, do you think?’ Aziraphale whispered, as they held each other.

‘To mind their own business from here on out,’ said Crowley. He kissed Aziraphale’s temple. ‘And thank you.’

‘I must confess myself impressed with their ingenuity,’ said Aziraphale. He shifted, his hand hesitantly venturing from Crowley’s neck into his hair. That was…enjoyable. ‘While the parallel is clear, Beatrice and Benedick aren’t based on us. Or if they are, Will made a proper effort to cover his tracks this time. Not like _Fine Portents_.’

‘Sorry?’ said Crowley. ‘Are you saying Shakespeare actually did base a play on us?’

‘More a scrapped draft,’ said Aziraphale. ‘He only ever completed Act I.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Crowley. ‘And why’s no one ever heard of it?’ He grinned a wicked, adoring grin. ‘Any miracles involved?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Aziraphale, with a blush that Crowley could feel against his own cheek. ‘But none were necessary until after his death. He brought it over to the shop, and I said, “What happens next?” and he said, “You tell me.” It wasn’t until I saw you again at the funeral that I realised what he meant.’

Crowley nodded. ‘And you have the only copy?’

‘I haven’t looked at it in well over a century,’ said Aziraphale. ‘The last time I took it out was during your long nap, as a pale facsimile of your company.’

‘You’ll never need that again,’ said Crowley firmly. ‘Now, show me. I can’t believe you’ve never said anything.’

‘Oh?’ said Aziraphale, with an arch tone hopelessly undercut by his lovestruck gaze. ‘I thought reading Shakespeare wasn’t your ideal first date?’

‘I never said anything about a second date,’ said Crowley, ‘but point taken. Let’s get lunch, decide what to do about those meddling kids, and take a look after.’ He paused, flushing. ‘And, ah, kissing you again wouldn’t go amiss either.’

Aziraphale beamed. ‘Let’s start with that,’ he said, and Crowley eagerly obliged.


	7. Act V

_December_

A few lonely rays of sunlight forced their way through the fogged windows, brightening the modest first-floor bedroom recently called into existence. Still unaccustomed to sleep, but finding himself more and more amenable to it these days, Aziraphale usually woke first, but he waited to rise, because lying next to Crowley and seeing him truly at peace was a privilege he’d never waste.

The demon blinked, shielding his eyes against the light. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ said Aziraphale. He leaned in and kissed him, as had become their ritual, and Crowley lazily kissed him back.

‘Still an oxymoron, angel, even for a given definition of “good”,’ said Crowley, ‘but this helps.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Aziraphale, because he was, even if he heard some variation on it all the time now. He wrapped his arms around Crowley and drew him closer, kissing the top of his head.

‘Would you like to go out to breakfast?’ he whispered into his ear. There was no need to whisper, with no one around to be disturbed, but Aziraphale would take any excuse to have Crowley so close. It was, undeniably, a point in sleep’s favour.

‘I’d rather stay here,’ Crowley murmured, clasping his hands over Aziraphale’s. ‘But sure. Probably best to face my proudest achievement on a full stomach. Wasn’t there some new crêpe place you couldn’t wait to be disappointed by?’

‘Bless you for remembering,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Or curse you, whichever way you’d have it.’ He sat up, cleared the frosted glass with a breath to reveal a dusting of snow over the pavement, and shook his head in disgust. ‘Really, Adam.’

‘Snow again?’ asked Crowley.

‘As ever,’ Aziraphale confirmed.

‘We could always cancel, you know,’ said Crowley. ‘Say we’re snowed in.’

‘My dear,’ said Aziraphale severely, ‘tempting though you make it, we can’t just skip their Christmas party because we’ve been too distracted to come up with a strategy. Not to mention they’d never believe it, when we could easily miracle our way out.’

‘Exactly,’ said Crowley. ‘Let them think they’ve really done it this time. We could even act like we’re not speaking or something. Ten to one they’d be worried enough to race down here instead. Turnabout, fair play, all that.’

Aziraphale smiled, suddenly struck with inspiration. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘when you put it that way, I think I’d prefer a different manner of turnabout.’

‘Oh?’ said Crowley. ‘Like what?’

‘Well,’ said Aziraphale, ‘if memory serves, Newton and Anathema always hang some sprig of mistletoe in their foyer, and I must confess I’d very much like to kiss you under it.’

‘Go on,’ said Crowley. He shifted against Aziraphale, sending a shiver down his spine.

‘Well,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘it would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if their little scheme appeared to have worked too well.’

‘You sly devil,’ said Crowley, cottoning on. ‘I’m in. Care for some practice before we head out?’

‘That would be most welcome,’ said Aziraphale, blushing scarlet as Crowley turned to face him. They leaned in as one, and then Crowley pushed forward, pinning Aziraphale against the bed.

‘Really, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, even as he twined their legs together, ‘I hardly think we’ll need to take it quite this far.’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Crowley, before kissing him.

*

As revenge schemes went, Anathema had seen better. Aziraphale clearly hadn’t taken nearly as much inspiration from certain of Agnes’ prophecies as he might have done, for which she supposed she ought to be grateful. But really, she’d expected more a bit more subtlety.

‘C’mon,’ she said in an undertone, waving the others towards the kitchen. ‘They’ll tire out eventually.’

‘In three hundred years, do you mean?’ asked Newt.

‘Or when they hear the sweet sound of a wine bottle coming uncorked,’ said Anathema. ‘Come—’

Adam winked. There was a loud popping noise, and then a champagne cork shot right through kitchen door and into the fireplace, where it promptly took on a new role as kindling for until-then-unlit flames.

‘—on,’ Anathema finished, shaking her head at him.

‘Congratulations, you two,’ said Adam, grinning at Crowley and Aziraphale, who disengaged from each other with pouts of reluctance that did nothing to dim their brilliant auras. ‘Look, you’ve made your point. We’re very sorry we had no choice but to trick you into it.’

‘So what exactly happened to not messing about?’ asked Aziraphale. ‘You could have just told us.’

‘And you’d have listened?’ asked Pepper. ‘Not gone off about how you’re not human, with all the denials you’d each think the other wanted to hear, and then been miserable for a century or so?’

‘Fair point,’ Crowley admitted after a moment, ignoring Aziraphale’s reproachful look. ‘I probably would’ve done that.’

‘This was more fun, anyway,’ said Brian, around a mouthful of Christmas candy. ‘And we tried to be ethical about it.’

‘You look really happy,’ said Anathema, ‘to the extent I can even see you, with the way you’re glowing uncontrollably. You also just more or less cooked the turkey for us, so thanks for that.’

‘You’re most welcome,’ said Aziraphale, with a lack of embarrassment that she had to admire, ‘but really, is that all you’ve got to say for yourselves?’

Anathema shook her head. ‘How about “have a seat; I’ll get the champagne”? Could someone with powers please make sure it’s still bubbly?’

‘On it,’ said Adam cheerfully. ‘Can’t have it not bubblin’.’

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. ‘They make a strong case,’ he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand as the latter struggled to turn an undignified laugh into a cough.

‘I suppose we’ll have to forgive them,’ he said. Crowley made a face.

‘Ugh,’ he said. ‘I’m a demon, I don’t “forgive”. So for the record, you’re a bunch of little shits, but also, thank you. Never change.’

‘And in that spirit,’ said Aziraphale, ‘we brought you something. To continue your Shakespearean education, you might say.’ He reached into a box they’d carelessly tossed aside as they came in, fished out a stack of papers and handed it to Adam, all without letting go of Crowley’s hand.

‘No way,’ said Adam, as the other Them clustered around him. Anathema followed, and so, in spite of himself, did Newt. ‘This is really real? Shakespeare actually wrote a play about you two?’

‘Tried, anyway,’ said Crowley. ‘Never got past Act I.’

‘Wicked,’ said Adam. ‘This'll confuse Mum and Dad even more than the _New Aquarian_ issues.’

‘Hey,’ said Wensleydale. ‘We want to read it too, Adam.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Aziraphale. ‘A belated thank you for the photocopier, even if it was delivered under false pretences.’

‘No problem,’ said Adam, with an incorrigible grin.

‘All right,’ said Crowley, turning to Anathema. ‘I believe you mentioned champagne?’

‘Coming right up,’ said Anathema. She ventured into the kitchen and loaded a tray with the dutifully bubbling bottle, four glasses, and four steaming mugs of hot cocoa for the Them, plus a canister of whipped cream boasting a truly miraculous shelf life. When she returned, Crowley and Aziraphale sat side by side on the sofa, their eyes alight with amusement as the Them excitedly flipped through photocopied pages worth millions of pounds apiece.

‘Here’s to you,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘The oddest couple in the universe.’

‘And to you all,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Our family, as it were.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Adam. ‘Joking aside, I’m glad it worked out.’ He meant it, too, his sincerity warming the room like the cosiest blanket, because Adam only ever wanted the best for his family. Anathema turned away, blinking a certain something out of her eye, and Newt crossed the room to discreetly slip an arm around her.

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley. He sipped his champagne, then wrapped an arm around Aziraphale, and the angel happily rested his head on his shoulder. ‘Us too.’

‘Right,’ said Brian, his face somehow already covered in whipped cream and chocolate. ‘Shakespeare first, or cards?’

‘How ’bout we do a dramatic reading?’ said Adam, a mischievous smile breaking out across his face. ‘Here, Newt, you can read the stage directions.’

‘We’ll need more wine for that,’ said Crowley, shaking his head.

‘As will I,’ Newt muttered, but the spike in heat surrounding him telegraphed his surprise and pleasure at being included, and Anathema couldn’t help smiling.

‘Who said anything about you two?’ said Adam, with a grin now threatening to split his face open. ‘You just sit and drink your sour grape juice. We’ll handle this.’

‘Beg pardon?’ asked Aziraphale. ‘You think you can play us better than we can play ourselves?’

‘We already proved that,’ said Adam. ‘All scientifically and suchlike. You just relax and enjoy.’

‘But—’ Aziraphale began, but he broke off when Anathema shook her head. She sat down on his other side and pulled a blanket over the three of them.

‘Just go with it,’ she said, smiling. ‘You might be pleasantly surprised.’

‘Don’t think we’ve forgot your part in this,’ said Aziraphale, trying to sound indignant and failing. Anathema stifled a laugh.

‘Give it a rest, angel,’ said Crowley. Out of the corner of her eye, Anathema could see that he was now massaging Aziraphale’s shoulder, and then his hand slid downwards, lacing their fingers together. ‘I’d like to see them try.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...that's a wrap! Thanks so much for reading!


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